A Pocket of Your Own

Two men pitch a crazy new invention to their boss.

My boss began drumming his fingers on his desk. Combined with his stern expression, it was a letter-perfect rendition of an employer rapidly losing his patience.

All things considered, I would've thought it was pretty funny if he wasn't glaring directly at me.

"So," I tenuously began, "Catch the game last night?"

"No," he curtly replied.

Well, that did it. I was out of ammo. Fifteen minutes into the meeting, and I was officially burning through the levels of goodwill that this project had acquired. Time to dust off the old resume and search for "Help Wanted" signs. I know the Panera on Lincoln is looking for a dishwasher...

I was finally ready to end this excruciating conference when the door burst open. My partner Donovan (partner in the business sense) collapsed into a chair. He looked like he'd been through hell, and when he got out, he went back for seconds. His clothes were in tatters. His face was unshaven and greasy. Heavy bags rested under his eyes. His shoes and socks were missing, revealing that at least one of his toenails had been brutally torn off.

And here I was apprehensive about a piece of toast stuck in my teeth.

The boss rose to his feet. "Good God, man! What happened to you?!"

Donovan shrugged. "Mondays, you know?"

Now, we were completely aware that it's never an intelligent maneuver to mess with the top dog. But sometimes, making an impression requires a hefty dose of drama.

Playing my part in the escapade, I put my hands together in a pleading manner. "I'm sorry, sir. We realize that we've already taken up a great deal of your valuable time. But if you'd just allow my partner eight seconds to compose himself..."

"Eight seconds?!" scoffed the boss. "This is absurd!"

"I'd consider that amount of time to be rather prudent," said Donovan. "If by then I have not reached your high measure of decorum, I will immediately tender my resignation. I assume my partner will do the same."

I urgently shook my head.

"Oh," said Donovan. "Well, one out of two isn't bad."

The boss smirked and sat back down. He was never one to pass up an opportunity to throw an employee under a bus. "I'm in a charitable mood today. I'll give you ten seconds. Begin."

Donovan smirked. He rolled up his sleeve and revealed a tricked-out timepiece covered in wires and batteries.

"See you soon." Donovan pressed an obtrusive red button on the watch, and he vanished.

The boss's jaw dropped. You know, I never get tired of seeing cartoonish expressions of incredulity.

Before the boss could intelligently phrase a question, Donovan was back. Except this wasn't the Donovan that left us. He was now immaculately tailored in a stylish suit straight from the closet of James Bond. All traces of fatigue had vanished, and if I'm not mistaken, he gave himself a manicure.

We were entirely prepared for an outrageous reaction here. Something to the effect of "What sorcery is this?!" Instead, the boss regained his composure, casually leaned back in his chair and raised an eyebrow. "Explain yourselves, gentlemen," he directed.

Thrown off by his calm acceptance of the impossible, it took a moment for me to remember my pitch.

"Well, you see, in a nutshell," I smoothly began, "we've gained access to billions of small, enclosed pocket dimensions for personal use. With one click of a button, the user is teleported into a space analogous to a football field which can be filled with any number of furnishings. Food, a wardrobe, a bed, exercise equipment..."

"Television? Computer?" asked the boss.

"We haven't quite mastered electricity yet, but we have complete control over temperature and illumination. Of particular interest is that time passes at a different rate than it does here on Earth."

Donovan nodded. "In the eight seconds I was gone here, I spent over eight hours there. Plenty of time to catch up on sleep and get dressed to the nines. I also finished reading a Richard Matheson novel."

"Of course, the body still experiences the passage of time," I interjected. "To counteract this, we've introduced a nullifying agent into the oxygen. For all intents and purposes, subjects are effectively immortal in the pocket."

The boss leaned back in his chair. "Boys, this sounds a great deal like science-fiction."

"With all due respect, sir," said Donovan, "the motion-activated doors on Star Trek were once thought to be science-fiction, as well."

The boss briefly pondered this information before outstretching his hand. "Give me the watch."

Donovan obligingly unstrapped the watch and forked it over.

The boss methodically affixed it to his wrist. "So I just hit this red button?"

"That's the one, sir," I said.

The boss pressed the button, and he vanished.

Eight seconds passed. The boss remained absent.

I turned to Donovan. "You told him the return code, right?"

Donovan leaned against the desk and shrugged dismissively. "One less jefe to share the profits with."

I eyed my business partner suspiciously.

"Oh," blushed Donovan. "I taught myself Spanish while I was in there. Muy buena, eh?"